


Bloody Deductions

by timethetalewastold (Bilo79)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blackmail, Explicit Language, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Kidnapping, M/M, Sexual Humor, implied johnlock feels, reference to blood and violence, reference to past drug use, reference to sex, reference to violence and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bilo79/pseuds/timethetalewastold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock suspects that his brother may have found a goldfish ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The goldfish

**Author's Note:**

> These are not my characters, they are the creation of ACD of course with embellishment from the lovely Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat at the BBC. I do not claim to own these characters and I do not make any money from writing about them!
> 
> I was intrigued by the suggestion in S3 that Mycroft might find a 'goldfish' and this fic just imagines how Sherlock would take to that. I don't think the writers would really give Mycroft a relationship in the show, but I would LOVE him to be happy, so this fic is about giving him a bit of happiness (eventually - there's some angst first!).

Mycroft stood by the fireplace in 221b, trying not to roll his eyes as Sherlock circled him suspiciously, attempting to deduce, when it was as clear as the nose ...

“If I didn’t know you better” Sherlock announced “I’d swear you’d had sex in the past eight hours. No, wait ...” he turned Mycroft’s face to the side, carefully and re-evaluated. “The past four hours” he corrected and stopped circling in order to further assess his brother. 

John sat in his armchair, pretending to read a newspaper, but smirking when he imagined Mycroft couldn’t see. 

“Sherlock, really” Mycroft began, but Sherlock cut him off. 

“Who is he?” his younger brother demanded and behind the newspaper, John Watson raised his eyebrows at the masculine pronoun, but said nothing. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean” Mycroft retorted “and I’ll thank you to stay out of my business, brother dear.” Then he was gone, with a quick swish of his umbrella and all Sherlock and John heard were his soft, sure footsteps disappearing down the stairs. 

Sherlock slid into his familiar chair opposite John and pulled a face which he also imagined John didn’t see. 

John lowered the newspaper. “He?” he repeated, with an unspoken question in his voice. 

“Hmmn?” Sherlock didn’t appear to be listening any more; he was staring at the fireplace, lost in a fresh deduction about Mycroft’s new partner. 

“You said ‘he’ - to Mycroft” John reiterated patiently, “How do you know it’s a he?” 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose slightly, as if the subject of his brother’s sexual liaisons were distasteful in the extreme. “Well, Mycroft hasn’t made many forays into this territory, John – sex – but when he has, his choice has always been the male of the species.” 

“The male of the species” John echoed, shaking his head at Sherlock’s ridiculous ability to make humans sound like an alien race. Perhaps they seemed that way, to Sherlock. 

“Anyway, why do you want to know who it is?” John continued. 

“To warn the poor fellow off, John! Goodness! Have you met Mycroft?” Sherlock looked astounded. 

“Yes – and so has he, Sherlock, if your brother’s sleeping with him! So this man must rather like Mycroft, wouldn’t you say?” John enquired and Sherlock made a face again at that. “Just give him his privacy, if that’s what he wants, Sherlock. It really is none of your business.” 

Sherlock was not to be dissuaded. “From what I could deduce, the man is in his thirties and a non-smoker. Almost as tall as Mycroft. Well-educated, of course: Mycroft would demand nothing less. Scotch-drinker ...” 

John held up his hands impatiently and left the room. 

 

\---------------------------------------------------- 

 

Sherlock swept grandly into the restaurant with his usual diplomacy, striding past a waitress with his coat billowing behind him and John Watson hurrying after, smiling apologetically at the waitress. Mycroft sat at his usual quiet table and flinched silently as Sherlock approached. “How lovely. Will you be joining us?” he smiled through gritted teeth, standing as Sherlock and John drew near. 

“Never mind that!” Sherlock replied imperiously, “Why on earth have you told Mummy and Daddy that we would visit them next month? I never agreed to such a thing.”  
Mummy and Daddy, thought John - he’d never tire of hearing the Holmes brothers calling their parents Mummy and Daddy. He smiled sympathetically at the man sitting opposite Mycroft. 

“Ah” murmured Mycroft, his smile still too tight, too uneasy.  
He deliberately lowered his voice, aware of the interested gaze of the other diners around them. “Richard, this is my younger brother, Sherlock and this is John. Sherlock, John, I’d like you to meet my ... well, this is Richard.” 

The man stood up now and Sherlock only gave him a cursory glance before glaring back at Mycroft. John stepped forward to shake his hand, compensating for Sherlock's lack of manners as he usually did, with a friendly smile and a “good to meet you.” 

Richard’s smile was genuine and his handshake, firm. “So, are you Sherlock’s partner?” he asked and then saw Mycroft bite his lip and felt at once that he had asked something he ought not to have asked. 

“No!” John replied quickly, just as Sherlock answered “Yes.” John and Sherlock exchanged accusatory looks. 

“In the professional sense” Sherlock clarified smoothly and looked at Richard properly for the first time now. “Oh” he realised, belatedly “You’re the scotch drinker.” 

“Sorry?” Mycroft frowned, but Richard merely smiled and shook Sherlock’s hand. 

“I’ve heard so much about you” he lied and glanced pointedly at Mycroft for a second, before returning his attention to Sherlock.  
“Won’t you both join us for dinner on Saturday?” 

“Well, really, Richard” Mycroft began, “Saturday is rather short notice! I’m certain that Sherlock and John ...” 

“We’d love to” Sherlock and John replied together and they both smiled demurely at Mycroft. 

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------- 

 

“Remind me why we thought this was a good idea?” Sherlock muttered as he rang the doorbell at Mycroft’s house. They stood together in that most exclusive part of London, no closer than usual, despite the coolness of the night. 

John stood smartly at Sherlock's side, preparing his own most cheerful smile. “Because you care for your brother and you want to meet the significant person in his life” he replied, still looking at the wooden door and smiling. To their surprise, it was opened by Mycroft himself. 

“Given the staff the night off?” Sherlock enquired, entering without being asked to and handing Mycroft his scarf. 

Mycroft smiled instead at John and murmured “How good of you to come. Oh, wine? And such a splendid year, do come in.” 

By the time they’d reached the drawing room, they could hear the soft laughter of Richard and Sherlock already. Both men stood in front of the fire, hands in pockets, sharing a joke which Mycroft felt may be at his expense. He raised an enquiring eyebrow at Richard, but found his expression was so open and familiar that Mycroft was at once sorry for doubting him. 

John observed the gentle smile which passed between them and lowered his eyes politely. 

Sherlock was less gracious. “Oh for goodness sake!” he remarked  
“You two aren’t going to make eyes at each other all evening, are you? I shan’t be able to keep my food down.” 

Richard grinned, good-naturedly. “We’ll endeavour to refrain, Sherlock” he replied, “No-one wants to see your food for a second time.” 

And Sherlock, astonishingly, smiled back and then made an observation about Richard’s wristwatch, which he apparently admired. Mycroft and John exchanged grateful glances and sat down. 

 

Dinner passed without incident. Mycroft managed to swallow down the gnawing apprehension which inevitably resulted when his younger brother was in the same room as someone Mycroft cared about. In fact, Sherlock was relatively charming that night. As if he knew. As if he saw Mycroft’s quiet anxiety in the way he manoeuvred his fork or gripped his napkin. Deductions. 

After dinner, the Holmes brothers stepped outside onto the balcony for a cigarette, leaving Richard and John to tut-tut at their filthy habit, from the warmth of the table. 

“I’m afraid I rather put my foot in it at the restaurant the other day” Richard began, smoothing the part of the white table cloth closest to him, even though he knew Mycroft would send it to be cleaned tomorrow anyway. He turned to John, “I assumed that you and Sherlock ...” 

“Oh, you aren’t the first” John assured him, “And I doubt you’ll be the last.” He smiled, wistfully, more understanding than he used to be when people made that assumption. 

“My gaydar, so to speak, is so rarely wrong” Richard continued. 

John regarded him carefully, wondering why Richard was labouring that particular point. “I’m not gay” he answered more firmly. 

“I can see that, John, I’m not an idiot” Richard replied, his reserve slightly lowered by the wine. He looked at John, kindly. “I saw the way you looked at that waitress in the restaurant. Sherlock didn’t even notice her, of course – why would he? But you did. In fact you turned around and looked at her a second time and it seemed to me you were working out the exact length of her rather short skirt.” Richard grinned, enjoying John’s mild surprise. “Now, I could be wrong, but I don’t think you were viewing that skirt entirely from a fashion point-of-view.” He raised his eyebrows jocularly and John could see how that gentle humour would please Mycroft, why cautious, defensive Mycroft felt so relaxed with this man. 

John laughed. Bloody deductions. 

Richard tilted his head slightly to appraise John again. He paused. “But I’ve also seen the way you look at him” he continued, nodding towards the balcony. “And he dresses very well, John, but I don’t think you look at him entirely from a fashion point-of-view either.” 

The silence which enveloped them then was loaded with words which John knew must remain unspoken - for his own sanity and for the sake of his friendship with Sherlock. He wanted to disagree, of course, to deny what this virtual stranger could clearly see, but something wouldn't let him speak. The heavy silence was interrupted by Sherlock and Mycroft sweeping back from behind the balcony curtains, full of night air and cigarettes and a noisiness which wasn’t needed in the sudden quiet of Mycroft’s house. 

“Pudding?” Mycroft enquired cheerfully, to no-one in particular. 

“I’ll help, darling” Richard answered, standing to help clear the plates. Sherlock went to sigh dramatically at the endearment, but found that he was doing it from habit rather than genuine annoyance, so stopped. He had wanted Mycroft to find a goldfish, hadn’t he? His brother could have done worse than Richard. 

Sherlock and John sat in a companiable hush whilst Mycroft and Richard fetched the pudding. Sherlock was folding his napkin into an intricate shape, absorbed by his task, whilst John watched him, absently. 

“Sherlock, have you noticed anything unusual about the way I look at you?” John asked at last. 

“Hmmmn?” Sherlock paused for a second without looking up, but then continued to fold the napkin, “Has Mycroft said anything?” 

“No, no, it was just something Richard said” John answered lightly. 

Sherlock paused again, then made another fold in the cloth. “I like the way you look at me, John” he replied, tenderly. 

“How exactly do I look at you, Sherlock?” John asked and for the first time since the conversation began, Sherlock met his eyes. 

“As if I’m brilliant” Sherlock responded and he dropped the folded napkin onto the table gently in front of John. 

John looked at it. “You’ve made a hedgehog” he commented. 

They could hear Mycroft in the corridor, calling something to Richard. 

John’s lips twitched. “That is sort of brilliant” he murmured, turning away from Sherlock and trying not to chuckle, but Sherlock’s shoulders were already rocking with the soft laughter that John knew so well and they were both guffawing by the time Mycroft came in with the cake. 

Mycroft saw the napkin hedgehog, but said nothing. Instead, he began to divide up the cake.

“None for us, thanks” Sherlock began, pushing back his chair, “We need to get home.” 

John looked baffled. “But I want cake” he pleaded and Mycroft was reminded of a small puppy. Sherlock had never before displayed a weakness for kittens and puppies. Mycroft wondered once more why John Watson was such a blind spot for his brother. 

“Oh, fine” Sherlock relented and pulled the plate of cake towards him. “I suppose another five minutes won’t hurt.” John smiled and began to eat. 

When Richard came in to the room, Sherlock did a double take. He turned and eyed his brother cautiously.  
“What exactly were you two doing in the kitchen?” Sherlock wondered. Mycroft’s face went pinker. 

“Why do you ask?” Richard enquired, genially. 

“Because” Sherlock explained, “you have a smear of cake on your top lip and my brother’s flies are unfastened.” 

“Suddenly not hungry. Nope” John announced, pushing the plate of cake away from him. 

“I’ll finish yours” Sherlock grunted and ate the cake from John’s plate whilst Richard and Mycroft studiously avoided each other’s gaze and endeavoured not to laugh. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------


	2. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life. It's all about trust.

The sound of Mycroft’s phone broke through his dreamless sleep, pulling him back into the darkened bedroom and to the knowledge that his phone ringing at 3am could never be a good thing. He reached over to his bed stand for his mobile, checked the number and answered with a weary “Yes?” 

“The uh... individual you asked us to monitor, sir...” the voice on the other end of the line was cautious. 

Mycroft was suddenly, infinitesimally more awake. “What is it?” 

“Persons as yet unknown have just tried to access his credit file, sir.” The man sounded as if he feared Mycroft may shoot the messenger. 

Mycroft pressed his lips together firmly. “I see” was all he murmured. 

“They were unable to, of course” the man reassured him. 

“One would hope so” Mycroft replied, curtly. He did not feel reassured. 

“Investigations are underway into the nature of the persons making that enquiry” the careful voice on the line continued. 

“Very good. Please keep me updated” Mycroft answered, ending the call with an unspoken but very clear displeasure at the brief conversation which had just taken place. 

He slipped the phone back onto the night stand quietly and lay on his side for some moments, staring into the darkness without seeing. His thoughts were interrupted by the sensation of gentle kisses being trailed up the length of his bare arm, making his face soften, despite his grim mood. He turned to meet Richard’s eyes, smoothing his thumb across his lover’s cheek as he did. 

“You should be asleep” he whispered, softly. 

“As should you” Richard admonished. “Saving the world again, darling?” 

Mycroft quirked his lips. “Something along those lines” he sighed. “Don’t concern yourself. Go back to sleep.” 

Richard pressed closer. “Must we?” he enquired, teasingly. 

Mycroft let his arm fall across his face, hiding his smile from Richard momentarily. “Well, perhaps not right away...” he whispered, as if he were conceding something. 

Mycroft so loved these private moments with Richard. When the bedroom was just dimly lit by the street light outside and the only sound came from the soft tick of the ancient grandfather clock on the landing. Then the only smell was of Richard and the only taste was of Richard and the only touch that mattered was the stroke of Richard’s hands across Mycroft’s skin. In those moments, Mycroft felt that the whole world could burn as long as he and Richard remained, as long as this remained. He couldn’t begin to articulate why it mattered so much. 

Richard would trace careful kisses across the soft skin of his shoulders and down his spine and around his hips, pausing every so often to catch Mycroft’s eye – as if checking his consent still remained, with each new space that his lips explored. 

Because Richard knew all of Mycroft’s insecurities, all his reservations; and he tread delicately. He handled Mycroft as one would handle china; he took his time. Sometimes, his need for Mycroft threatened to overwhelm him, but he held back. He would always hold back. Richard would wait a life time, rather than hurt Mycroft. 

And Mycroft observed the care Richard took, he saw the watchfulness in Richard’s eyes, he absorbed the slowness of his touch, and he adored him for it. 

In all aspects of his life, Mycroft was used to being in control. At work, even at home, with his family, with his brother, Mycroft exuded cool imperviousness. He had learnt never to let his guard drop. Restraint was required at all times. Other people expected it of him and furthermore, Mycroft expected it of himself. 

So the vulnerability which Richard unravelled in him, was disconcerting, to say the least. But over weeks and months, Mycroft grew to welcome it. It took nerves of steel, but over time, he learnt how to arch his body against Richard’s and relinquish control and he welcomed it. 

The first time he had allowed himself to come in front of Richard, he saw the quiet longing in Richard’s eyes and he was glad. 

The first time he had permitted himself to fall to his knees between Richard’s legs, he knew at once that this was how blackmail began. But the desire which flickered across Richard’s face at that very moment didn’t speak of such dishonesty. It spoke of need and want – for him. It spoke of trust. 

And this was how, in those quiet moments, in the middle of the night, whilst most of London slept, the brittle and defensive Mycroft Holmes looked into the eyes of another man and very slowly, very gingerly, began to learn how to trust.


	3. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has to ask for help.

Mycroft stood in front of the fireplace at 221b again. He leant on his umbrella and frowned slightly. He once again found himself stood between his brother and John Watson and, as always, at a disadvantage. There they sat in their usual chairs - stockinged feet, sprawled out and relaxed in each other's company, whilst he stood before them: so formally dressed and so proper. His uneasiness made him more uneasy, until he became caught in some formidable loop. 

“Two visits in as many weeks” Sherlock remarked, casually. “To what do we owe the inconvenience?” 

Mycroft bit back a smart reply. He was about to ask for his younger brother’s help, it was bound to be mortifying. He gave Sherlock an insincere smile. “Yes, very good, Sherlock – if we could move on? I’m here to ask for your assistance.” 

Sherlock plucked out a vague tune on his violin, nonchalantly. If Mycroft firmly concentrated, it sounded like Chopin’s Funereal March. He grimaced. 

“I’m afraid I’m unavailable for your disreputable governmental manoeuvrings today, Mycroft” Sherlock replied between pauses in the melody. “I have eyeballs to catalogue.” 

Mycroft rolled his own eyes and hoped Sherlock would catalogue that. “Rest assured, brother, that this has nothing to do with governmental manoeuvrings. I require your help in a rather more personal matter.” 

Sherlock glanced at John, who had remained silent up until this point. John cleared his throat and began to stand up. “Would you like me to leave?” he asked Mycroft. 

Sherlock waved him to sit back down. “Stay, John, Mycroft may require your medical knowledge regarding this personal matter of his. You may be obliged to draw diagrams.” 

John smirked, but he waited for Mycroft’s curt nod before he settled back into his chair. 

“It’s regarding Richard” Mycroft began. 

He watched as Sherlock’s fingers continued to pluck out the mournful tune on the blasted violin. “Oh, we really will be needing diagrams” Sherlock muttered and John coughed a little too enthusiastically. “Are you here to ask about birth control?” Sherlock enquired and Mycroft did lose patience then. 

“Will you listen, Sherlock!” he shouted. “This is no laughing matter. I have reason to believe that he is in danger.” 

Sherlock looked up quickly as if he recognised something in Mycroft’s tone which caught his attention. He met his brother’s gaze, suddenly serious. “What makes you think so?” he asked, cautiously. 

Mycroft sighed, resigning himself now to sharing his previously unvoiced fears with John and Sherlock. “Someone has been watching him” he admitted, reluctantly. “Attempts have been made to access his private information. Last night, an intruder was disturbed in his flat.” 

“Were they apprehended?” Sherlock enquired, resting the violin on his knee now, his attention focused on Mycroft. 

Mycroft pressed his lips together, barely concealing his dissatisfaction. “Alas, no. Escaped through the window. Although, since Richard lives on the second floor of his building, that does give us further information about the suspect.” 

“Fit, of course – agile” Sherlock replied “How small was the window?” 

“Very” Mycroft responded “The flat has old Victorian sash windows which no longer fully open – the burglar escaped through a gap of about fourteen inches.” 

Sherlock nodded, considering. He narrowed his eyes. 

“Is Richard okay?” John asked. 

Mycroft turned to him, gratefully. “He is fine, John. He does not know of any of this and I would appreciate it if it remained that way. Last night he was staying with me, which the burglar must have known. Nothing was taken during the break-in and my people will ensure that his flat bears no signs of the drama which unfolded there yesterday.” 

“How did anyone get in, with your people watching his flat?” John enquired. 

Mycroft frowned again, a narrow crease appearing across his forehead. “Indeed” was all he said. 

“The question would seem to be: is this person – or persons – an enemy of Richard’s or an enemy of yours?” Sherlock remarked. Mycroft inclined his head in agreement. “Does Richard have many powerful enemies?” Sherlock asked, already appearing to know the answer. 

Mycroft looked at himself in the mirror over the fireplace for a few thoughtful seconds. “No” he acknowledged, sadly. 

“Then it would seem” Sherlock continued “that, like so many before, Richard is in fact in danger as a direct result of his association with you.” He became aware that John was trying to catch his attention; he appeared to be giving him that particular pissed-off look of his which said: not good. 

Sherlock considered his words and on reflection, agreed that he could have phrased his deduction a little more gently. He started again. “Narrow it down, Mycroft” he instructed, just had Mycroft had advised him to do on so many occasions when Sherlock himself had reached a stumbling block. “Who have you ... displeased enough? Enough to do this? Who is agile and fit and small? Who would specifically choose to target you through Richard?” 

Mycroft nodded. Anyone watching closely would have observed a subtle shift in his shoulders, as if he had suddenly come to a realisation. “Thank you, Sherlock” he said, almost smiling now. “Sometimes one merely needs the presence of a fresh pair of eyes or ears in order to notice what was already there.” 

“Glad to be of assistance” Sherlock answered, raising his violin to his shoulder again “although you really ought to consider sharing your concerns with Richard as well, if you want my opinion.” 

“For his own safety?” Mycroft enquired, turning to leave. 

“No” John cut in, “because it doesn’t do to have secrets from those you love.” 

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a knowing glance. “Well, you would know, Doctor Watson” Mycroft replied. “Good day” and he was gone again. Sherlock carried on playing the Chopin tune and John smiled, resting his socked feet on Sherlock’s chair for a minute and yet again revelling in this quiet solidarity they shared. 

“Secrets can be helpful as well” Sherlock said suddenly “necessary, even.” He continued to play the piece without looking at John. 

“Not big secrets, Sherlock” John answered. “Small secrets are okay, like the odd cigarette when you think the other person doesn’t know” he smiled. “But big secrets are never good, are they?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer.


	4. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is rather enjoying having Richard around.  
> And Richard is beginning to feel a little hopeful

“I’ve spent two nights in a row at your house, Mycroft” Richard grinned, over breakfast. “I shall have to return home today before you lose your Council Tax Rebate.” 

Mycroft smiled easily, “Ah, the many perks of being a single person” he remarked. Richard watched the early morning sunlight catch his hair, turning it auburn – he reached across the table to touch it, enjoying the knowledge that only he could ruffle Mycroft’s hair and then smooth his fingers through it in the morning sun. 

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, delighting in the familiarity of Richard’s hands, allowing himself the fleeting pleasure of his touch. “I really must go” he murmured. He opened his eyes to see Richard still looking at him, fondly. 

“What’s on the agenda today?” Richard asked, taking a bite of his toast and leaning back now in his chair. “Are you sorting out North Korea? Or the Baltic states?” His knee brushed against the inside of Mycroft’s leg under the table. Mycroft liked it. 

“I could tell you, but I would have to kill you, as the old saying goes” Mycroft replied and took a sip of his tea. 

Richard laughed. He pushed his knee in between Mycroft’s legs, nudging it gently against his crotch. “But if you killed me, who would do this?” he enquired, feigning nonchalance as colour crept into Mycroft’s face. 

Mycroft cleared his throat and stood up rather too abruptly. “I really must go” he repeated, more firmly now and Richard dipped his head away and carried on eating his toast. 

“What about you?” Mycroft asked over his shoulder as he washed up his cup. “Are you in your office today?” 

“Working from home this morning” Richard answered with a mouthful of toast. “I’m needed in court this afternoon though.” 

“So you’re going home?” Mycroft asked. He wondered if Richard could hear the hesitation in his voice. Richard hadn’t been home since the break-in at his flat – which he still didn’t know about. Mycroft had every faith in the ability of his staff to cover up the break-in, but he also had every faith in Richard’s excellent powers of observation. What if Richard noticed something amiss at the flat?  
He was, as John Watson had laughingly remarked to Mycroft after first meeting him, “Smarter than the average barrister.” Mycroft had chuckled at the time and felt a swell of pride in his chest that this man who was indeed “smarter than the average barrister” saw fit to love Mycroft Holmes. 

Now though, Richard’s very intelligence was what concerned him. He made a show of drying his tea cup and faced away from Richard. Richard didn’t react though; he didn’t seem to acknowledge the edge of caution in Mycroft’s voice. 

“Well, when I say ‘work from home’” he admitted “What I actually mean is work from your home.” He smiled over at Mycroft’s back. “I hope you don’t mind.” 

“Not in the least.” Mycroft turned to look at him, his face filled with that inexplicable pleasure which came from knowing that Richard would still be here, pottering around Mycroft’s house this morning, even if he himself would not. 

“But I really shall have to go home this evening” Richard reiterated, turning his face up to take Mycroft’s kiss, as he approached. “I need to check my mail and do my laundry and anyway” he paused to press his lips against Mycroft’s neck, “I need to give you a little space, I think, or you will be quite tired of the sight of me.” 

Mycroft leant over Richard and pressed his forehead against his. Neither spoke for a second or two. 

“My dear Richard” Mycroft whispered “there is very little danger of that.” 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

And so there was really nothing very unusual about that morning. Nothing out of the ordinary. Mycroft left only a minute or so late, stepping out into the weak sunshine and climbing into his waiting car, just as he normally did. 

Inside the house, Richard began to clear up his breakfast plate and think about the day ahead. From the kitchen window, he could see it looked set to be a bright, clear day. If it was warm enough before lunch, he considered he may even edge onto the balcony with his laptop – he felt hopeful. He placed his teacup on the draining board and let that little spark of hope flutter around his belly. 

Which made it all the more disappointing when the cloth was pressed over his face from behind and the harsh chemical smell filled his nose and his vision began to fade to a rather sinister black.


	5. History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game escalates too quickly for Mycroft's liking. Ultimatums are received. 
> 
> John and Sherlock hear a little history from Mycroft. 
> 
> And new deductions are made which could help them find Richard.

“I have something of yours” the voice on the end of the line murmured – the taunt, the smile, was there for him to hear. “I wasn’t planning to make my move just yet, but you rather forced my hand, darling. I turned the corner of my street to find three of your people watching my flat. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” The man laughed, bitterly. “I used to be one of your people, Mycroft, of course I noticed.”

Mycroft paused, willing his heart to slow, steadying his breathing, needing his voice to sound surer than it was. “Joe” he replied “you know, most people merely send a text to say they are back in town.” He leant back in his chair and carefully put the call onto speaker-phone. His office was bugged, of course, this meant the call would be recorded. 

The other man laughed and Mycroft felt ill to his stomach to hear his cool laughter ringing out in this office again after so many years. He grimaced. 

“I am not, as you must realise, Mycroft, ‘most people’. I feel this gesture says so much more than a text – wouldn’t you agree? It’s more special.” The man paused. “You’re worth the effort.” 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “What is it you want?” he asked, fighting to keep the pain out of his voice. Mycroft had more reason than most to fear this man. He had shared his confidences once. He had looked into those steel-grey eyes too many times. He knew what this man was capable of. And he knew he had Richard. 

“Well, here’s the thing, Mycroft” the voice came back; less teasing now, the harder edge was there. “You abandoned me all those years ago. When my government decided they no longer required my services – you could have intervened, you could have spoken on my behalf.” 

“You killed a man, Joe” Mycroft answered, evenly. 

“I was a fucking government spy, Mycroft, I’ve killed many men” the voice was devoid of emotion. 

Mycroft sighed. 

“You killed a man in a fight outside a club, Joseph, which is slightly different, I’m afraid. Questions were asked. It was felt you had become ...” Mycroft hesitated. 

“Say it” the man growled, “A liability? Is that what I had become?” he was shouting now. 

Mycroft knew he needed to be careful. “Joe, please stop this” he said, quietly, hoping to appeal to what little affection might remain, to trade on the history they shared. 

“It’s too late!” the man laughed. “My dearest Mycroft, don’t you see? It’s far too late! However – back to business, if you don’t mind. I have something. You want it back. A couple of million should cover it.” 

“You know that isn’t possible” Mycroft replied calmly. 

“Well, then, you can kiss your plaything goodbye, can’t you? What a dilemma!” the man’s voice dropped to a lower, more deliberate register. “You have twenty four hours, Mycroft. Choose well.” 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He played the recording back to Sherlock and John. They sat in grim silence at the table in 221b, avoiding his eyes. 

“You’re trying to trace the call, of course?” Sherlock asked. 

“Indeed, but he knows our methods, unfortunately. He was one of ours, once.” Mycroft bit his lip. 

“Tell me about him” Sherlock stood up and faced away from Mycroft, lost in thoughts he wasn’t ready to share yet. 

Mycroft pressed his lips together and gathered up the relevant information for Sherlock. “Ex-MI6” he began, “he was a respected agent for a number of years. We became ... close.” 

Sherlock glanced at him, but said nothing. 

“But he became a liability, that’s what he said” remarked John, “he killed a civilian.” 

Mycroft inclined his head. “Around three years ago. There were some substance issues” he said, quietly, studiously avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. “By the end, Joe wasn’t always in control of his actions.” 

The silence settled heavily on the flat, thick like snow. 

So much went unsaid, within these walls. John sometimes wondered what happened to all the buried emotions, all the love and pity which remained unexpressed in this little corner of Baker Street. All their private passions – did they pour into the bricks? Were they soaked up by the old building? 

Mycroft arranged his hands anxiously on the table. “The official decision was made to encourage Joe to disappear” he said “and of course, my personal closeness to him could not continue.” 

“Did you see him again?” John asked, trying not to appear too aghast. 

“It was out of the question” Mycroft replied, without feeling. “I offered to pay for him to spend some time in rehabilitation – not here. I know of an excellent facility, in Thailand." Mycroft ignored the subtle shift in Sherlock's shoulders and continued: "However, Joe declined. Our connection was severed.” 

John raised his eyebrows and blinked. 

“You really are all heart, brother” Sherlock murmured. 

Mycroft lowered his head. “You have never committed to a career which would require you to accept any adult responsibility. Therefore, you would not understand, Sherlock” he replied, coolly. 

Sherlock sat back down at the table. “Let me hear the call again” he demanded, “there’s something about that recording which we’re missing.” 

John restarted the recording and they all listened again in silence. Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt as if he were listening to the conversation for the hundredth time that night. It wasn’t as if this time would be any different ... he looked up at Sherlock, suddenly. His brother stared back at him, slightly open-mouthed. 

“There!” shouted Sherlock, startling John. “Did you hear it?” 

Mycroft nodded. “John, could you rewind around eight seconds?” he asked, still staring at Sherlock, still wondering if he was simply hearing things he wanted to, out of desperation. 

But no – it was there again when John replayed the recording: very faint, so faint you could almost miss it. The sound of a train horn. 

Sherlock smiled. “He’s near a whistle board” he stated. 

John shrugged, not understanding. 

“Whistle boards are situated at crossings or places where pedestrians may be” Sherlock explained. “Every train which passes must sound its whistle as a precaution. Joe was calling from somewhere near one, there were trains sounding their whistles in the background during the call.” 

“That was a very specific train” Mycroft remarked. “It was a pendolino – they only run from Euston.” 

Sherlock and John narrowed their eyes at him and Mycroft belatedly feigned innocence. “What?” he asked “Don’t either of you ever leave London? Pendolinos are among the fastest trains in Europe. The only ones in Britain run on the West Coast Main Line from London Euston. I had to take one, once; there was a situation in Manchester which required my attention.” 

“I’m finding it hard to picture you on a train to Manchester, Mycroft” John answered, doubtfully. 

“I took first class, of course” Mycroft replied airily “it was still ghastly. However, it helps us narrow down Joe’s location. We are looking for a whistle board on the West Coast Main Line out of Euston.” 

“There could be dozens” John frowned. 

Sherlock reached for his phone. “I may know a man who could help us” he said and walked into the kitchen to conduct his call. 

“There was a case” John said, by way of explanation, “guy was a bit of a train expert.” 

“So I hear” Mycroft remarked, dryly. 

“He’ll find him, Mycroft” John said softly, watching the worried lines around Mycroft’s eyes. “We will. We’ll find him.” 

“You said ‘he’ at first” Mycroft observed, wistfully, “you have such faith in my younger brother.” 

“He has faith in me” John retorted, lifting his jaw slightly in defence “and we will find Richard.” 

“I know” Mycroft replied, "I know we will."  
He let his head fall into his hands for a moment, knowing Sherlock could not see; not minding that John could, “but I need him to be alive, John.” 

John nodded. He understood so well, of course, how much Mycroft needed Richard to be alive.


	6. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They close in on Joe. 
> 
> And Sherlock comes to some realisations.

John had unfolded a large, unwieldy map of central London and they had spread it across the little table in Baker Street, pressing their fingers into the creases of it, over the lanes and alleyways which ran around Euston. 

Sherlock usually loved these times with John and could even tolerate time with Mycroft, when there was a puzzle to be solved. Internally, he would gallop along the corridors of his Mind Palace with barely-disguised satisfaction, greeting each new piece of evidence like sought-after treasure. It was all a game, in the end, a thrilling, intricate game. 

But tonight was so very different, Sherlock reflected; tonight wasn’t fun at all. They knew with each hour that passed, that Richard was in more danger. They knew that his life depended upon their finding him. In the muted light of 221b, with worry etched in unfamiliar lines across their faces, Sherlock saw that this had stopped being a game some time ago. 

Mycroft retreated to John’s chair with a laptop, bringing up satellite images as Sherlock barked out street names. “No, too public” Mycroft replied to Sherlock’s first suggestion “Joe wouldn’t risk being seen.” He searched for the next location and frowned. “No vehicular access,” he shook his head, “keep going.” 

“What exactly are we looking for?” John asked, looking up from the map for a moment. 

“A warehouse, an old factory, anywhere that Joe might have been able to get access to” Sherlock replied. 

John thought he saw Mycroft’s eyes flicker shut for a moment, as if his brain had sputtered off-line momentarily, unable to process the thought of Richard held in some draughty warehouse. John looked back at the map quickly, uncomfortable at having witnessed Mycroft’s defences falter. 

Mycroft composed himself and looked back at the screen. The third whistle board was located further out. He hesitated as he looked at the satellite image. “This is a possibility” he murmured. 

John held his finger on the map for Sherlock to see. An uneasy silence fell as they all considered the prospect. This brown dot underneath John’s finger, the Victorian warehouse on Mycroft’s screen, this could be where Richard was. 

Mycroft swallowed. Was he injured, he wondered? Did he lie still on that cold floor, waiting for them? It seemed unlikely. Knowing Richard, he would be working out what his captor had eaten for lunch and how he could use the information against him. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Mycroft” he said, carefully, “as much as I normally object to such activities, now might be a good time to view some CCTV footage.” 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The CCTV in the next street showed Joe, at 3.22pm that afternoon. He was strolling leisurely and alone, carrying a small bag. There was no sign of Richard. 

“He could have taken Richard there this morning by car” Mycroft remarked “we don’t know what vehicle Joe is using.” 

“Have you checked local car and van hire firms?” Sherlock asked. 

“Of course” Mycroft answered, sharply. He softened his tone a little, “If he’s used one, he didn’t do it under his own name or any of his usual aliases.” 

John quirked an eyebrow – only Mycroft’s ex-boyfriends would have usual aliases. 

He narrowed his eyes as he peered at the shadowy figure on the screen. He was small, just as Sherlock had deduced – small and thin, athletic-looking. Nothing like Richard, then, who was almost as tall and broad as Mycroft. He said as much out loud. “You don’t have a type, do you?” he commented, motioning with his head towards the screen. 

“Does any of us, John?” Mycroft answered and flicked his eyes briefly towards Sherlock, who was deliberately ignoring them both as he studied the map, pretending to be above such conversations. John felt his cheeks burn a little from the unexpected suggestion. 

He wondered what Mycroft really thought of the friendship he had forged with his younger brother. Mycroft made barbed references here and there, of course – mostly to annoy Sherlock, John imagined. A few weeks since, for example, he had come to update them on a case. That was the day Sherlock had deduced that Mycroft had a boyfriend – it seemed so long ago now. So much had happened since, so much had passed. 

That day, John remembered, he had pointedly knocked on the living room door and waited. Sherlock had sighed, dramatically. “I know it’s you, Mycroft, come in!” he had shouted, “Since when do you knock on my fucking door?” 

“One never knows what one may walk in on” Mycroft had remarked then, peering around the doorframe like the very picture of good manners. Sherlock had bristled and crossed his legs defensively, radiating restrained rage until John had raised his newspaper, so he didn’t have to look at him. 

But everywhere he invited Sherlock, Mycroft invited John. Sometimes John allowed himself to think of this as a sign of acceptance – a sign to Sherlock, to John, to whomever; then he shook his head quickly, as if trying to dislodge a childish idea. 

Mycroft Holmes would never engage in such sentimentality. If he seemed to welcome John, it was not borne from brotherly compassion for Sherlock and certainly not from any actual fondness for John. No doubt Mycroft merely appreciated the fact that, for whatever reason, John’s company appeared to keep Sherlock off illegal drugs. 

John wondered when this had become his function in life – when his reason for being was to distract Sherlock from the impulse to feed things into his veins or up his nose. He also wondered when he had stopped minding and started enjoying the fact that Sherlock considered him so lively a diversion. 

“Are we doing this?” asked Mycroft, in a low and steady voice. 

“Hmmmn?” John glanced between Mycroft and Sherlock. 

Their faces were set. It seemed that whilst he had been distracted, the decision had been made. John steeled his nerves and without another word, went to retrieve his gun. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rain lashed down in torrents, beating against them and soaking them, seeping into their clothes too quickly, too thoroughly. Sherlock turned up his collar ineffectually against the downpour as he and John and Mycroft pressed against the blackened exterior wall of the warehouse and tried to be heard above the roar of the rainfall. 

“Do you have back-up?” he asked. 

Mycroft motioned briefly to the building across the road “One in there, one at the rear of the building, that’s all. They’ll be very discreet. Any more would risk drawing his attention.” 

“Mycroft, let me call Greg” John repeated, but was met with a firm shake of Mycroft’s head. 

“Inspector Lestrade will be of little use to us, I’m afraid. We need to handle this ourselves and we need to do it now.” 

John sighed, reluctantly. “Okay, we’ll do it your way” he relented. “What’s the plan?” 

The plan, it seemed, was to split up. Mycroft would take the front entrance – Joe would most likely be watching this one and would be less likely to kill Mycroft. Sherlock and John would go around the back and then once inside, would separate. 

“Our aim is to find Richard” Mycroft reminded them “Joe can be dealt with later. This is about getting Richard out of there safely.” 

“Can’t it be at least a little bit about killing your psychotic ex?” Sherlock asked, but Mycroft darted him a look which said that it very much could not. 

“Are either of you armed?” John asked, abruptly “I know this is about getting Richard out of there, but you realise Joe is bound to be here, don’t you?” 

“I can take care of myself” Sherlock replied, grimly. 

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and the cold expression in his eyes unsettled Sherlock in a way even he was unused to. Bleakly, Sherlock understood that his brother would stop at nothing - absolutely nothing - to get Richard out of there safely. He turned away, not wanting, not needing to know what Mycroft was capable of in these circumstances. Some information could not be un-learnt. 

He turned towards the back of the building without another word, or even a final glance at Mycroft. It was John who reached out and gently squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder – perhaps it was his army training. He was used to saying goodbyes and knowing it may be the last time. 

Sherlock heard his soft movement behind him as they moved to the back of the building. He felt safer, with John near him, calmer. He paused as they pressed up against the cold brick wall, breathing in the familiarity of John for one last time. 

“No risks, ok?” he heard John whisper. 

He turned to face him, took in those features which were branded into all his favourite memories. In Sherlock’s Mind Palace, John was always laughing at something Sherlock had said. His face was relaxed and his head thrown back at some shared joke, some comment meant only for him. Sherlock’s jokes were only ever meant for him. 

John’s eyes were serious now, no joke lay behind them. He looked into Sherlock’s face and repeated: “No risks.” 

Sherlock dipped his head in acknowledgment. He didn’t trust himself to speak. If he opened his mouth, words might fall out; words for which neither of them were prepared. So he turned, in the rain, away from John Watson and away from his solemn face which made Sherlock’s chest hurt. 

They edged into the warehouse through a large broken window at the back. It had been boarded over decades ago, with wood which was now splintered by age. John and Sherlock stood perfectly still inside the old building, allowing their eyes to adjust to the almost total lack of light. 

It was nearly pitch-black inside, since the light from the street lamps could only find its way in where the wood across the windows had rotted away. It was quieter too, away from the heavy rain. The hush sounded peculiar to Sherlock’s ears. 

John pressed his hand against Sherlock’s shoulder as he turned to leave. Sherlock could only see his outline now, couldn’t see his gentle face, his expressive eyes, but he didn’t need to. Sherlock had committed them to memory long ago. 

Then John was gone – around a corner and through a doorway and out of Sherlock’s sight. 

Sherlock moved in the other direction, feeling his way delicately amongst the rubble, evidence of decades of the building’s neglect. His senses were tuned to any sign of life – any sound, sight, smell, which might indicate Richard or Joe was close; but he got nothing. 

Minutes passed – nothing. 

It was as if he was utterly alone, yet he knew that at the very least John and Mycroft were also here somewhere, stealing around this place as stealthy and silent as he. 

More minutes passed before he finally heard it – the unmistakable sound of a conversation: two voices. He could discern the steady rhythm as they spoke, the pauses, the little dance two humans do when they each want to be heard. Sherlock tilted his head to the sound and moved towards it. 

As he drew closer, he recognised his brother’s tone. Even from this distance, Mycroft sounded panicked to Sherlock’s ear, his voice slightly higher in pitch than usual. He wondered if Joe could pick up on that. Joe’s was the other voice, Sherlock deduced; he recognised the scornfulness of it from the recording Mycroft had played. 

“I knew you would find me” Joe was saying. 

“Of course you did” Mycroft replied, trying to keep his voice even. “Was it fun, this?” 

“Oh, great fun!” Joe replied, enthusiastically. “We should make it a monthly thing, you and I.” 

Sherlock still couldn’t see them, but he followed the sound of their voices, edging slowly through the debris in the dark. 

“I rather think this needs to end now, Joe” Mycroft was saying. “Let Richard go.” 

“Look at you, Mycroft, striding in here in the middle of the night: ‘Let Richard Go!’ So gallant!” Joe laughed, resentfully. “You should have shown such gallantry when I needed you.” 

“The situation was hardly the same” Mycroft replied. “Please, Joe. He has done nothing wrong.” 

“Why do you suddenly care so much, Mycroft?” Joe asked “It’s so unlike you to care. I find this new side to you quite intriguing.” 

Sherlock could see them now, through a broken doorway. They stood about six feet apart – neither of them apparently armed, but Sherlock knew that meant nothing. Mycroft didn’t need a gun. 

Suddenly, Mycroft’s expression faltered. He was looking over Joe’s shoulder at something else, someone else, that Sherlock couldn’t see. The look of horror which crawled across his brother’s features made Sherlock stall; because for the first time in recent memory, Mycroft Holmes looked as if his legs might actually buckle underneath him. Sherlock shifted as far as he could, to see whatever it was which had caught Mycroft’s attention. 

Joe let a slow smile spread across his face. “Here’s the man of the moment!” he declared and Sherlock could see Richard edging into view now. He looked in a bad way. He was wearing pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, which were now black with grime and dust from the warehouse. His arms and face were beginning to bruise, his t-shirt was bloodied and he moved tentatively, as if in considerable discomfort. He held his head up defiantly though, despite the beating he had obviously received, and blinked slowly, reassuringly at Mycroft. 

“And do you recognise his escort, Mycroft?” Joe motioned to the tall blond man holding a gun to Richard’s head. “One of your people, I believe?” 

Mycroft glanced at the man and nodded briefly before looking back to Richard, as if unable to tear his eyes away from him: checking him constantly, needing confirmation that he was still there and still breathing. Sherlock sensed that his brother was going to be of little help in this situation. 

“How do you think I got into lover-boy’s flat, Mycroft?” Joe smirked. “How would I get into your house? Come on! I needed a little inside assistance.” 

“You were trusted, Marcus” Mycroft said, shakily. He seemed to be addressing the blond man, but he still didn’t take his eyes off Richard. 

The blond man shrugged, smiling. “He paid better. Sorry, sir” he replied, not sounding terribly sorry at all. 

And then a shot rang out through the quiet of the old factory. 

And the man called Marcus wasn’t smiling anymore. He was looking surprised. Then he was crumpling and dropping and thick crimson blood was blooming swiftly like red-black ink across his chest. 

John. 

Sherlock observed the scene transform from restrained calm to frenzied chaos within a split second of John’s shot. 

Richard fell to the floor and scooted painfully over to where Sherlock could now see John was crouched. John gathered him up hurriedly and positioned himself in front, shielding Richard and all the time, still gripping his gun with still determination. 

Meanwhile, Joe had dropped to the floor when the shot first rang out, his instincts or his training kicking in. He showed no reaction to Marcus’ death, instead quickly grabbing the gun from his lifeless hand. 

And then Joe was turning and grabbing and before anyone could stop him, he had Mycroft and the gun was held to Mycroft’s temple and John was helpless to stop that. 

So there they stood: John shielding Richard, aiming at Joe and Joe aiming at Mycroft and none of them yet aware of Sherlock’s presence. Sherlock pressed himself back against the crumbling plaster and silently texted Lestrade the address of the factory, adding: 

IMMEDIATELY. SH

Even as he sent the text, he knew he had no intention of waiting for Lestrade. It could take up to eight minutes for the police to get here. Mycroft was in danger now. 

At that moment, Sherlock didn’t think about how insufferable his older brother was. He didn’t think about the times as a child that Mycroft had made Sherlock feel so stupid that he wept big fat tears of rage. He didn’t think about the times as a teenager Mycroft had laughed at him until Sherlock actually hit him and fractured his nose. He didn’t think about the time he had made Sherlock’s cheeks burn with fury by calling him a virgin in front of Lestrade. He didn’t even think about all the times he had made sly references to Sherlock’s love for John Watson TO John Watson, and Sherlock had had to clench his teeth so hard his jaw ached. 

He thought about how, as a child, Mycroft had helped Sherlock learn the elements of the Periodic Table and had patiently sat and tested Sherlock – night after night until he knew them all. He thought about how, when Sherlock was a teenager, Mycroft had taken the blame for cigarettes found in the greenhouse which were definitely not Mycroft’s. He thought about the time Sherlock had unwisely shared certain intimate secrets with a boy at college who then threatened to tell their classmates, and how Mycroft had accidently broken three of that boy’s fingers. He thought about the black times, the danger nights, when Mycroft sat in the corner of his room and listened without judgement whilst Sherlock raged and railed at the unfairness of a world into which they just didn’t fit. 

This is what Sherlock thought about when he stepped into that room and Mycroft ducked and Sherlock shot Joe most unapologetically in the head. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock sat on the low wall outside the factory, watching Lestrade directing uniforms here and there. Usually, nights which ended up with Lestrade coming to rescue them were more fun than this. He could not help contemplating how very much un-fun tonight had been. Tonight his temples had ached and his pulse thundered, not from adrenaline, but from manifest, wild fear. 

John stood in front of him and handed him a cup of coffee in a cardboard cup. “Best I could do, I’m afraid” he muttered. 

“John” Sherlock remarked, lifting his eyes to study him, “I have just realised that I am altogether too familiar with the sight of your face lit up by flashing blue lights.” 

John chuckled softly. “You like flashing blue lights, Sherlock” he replied. 

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee. “I do, rather” he agreed. 

“They’ll be all right, won’t they?” John nodded vaguely at Mycroft and Richard. They were sat crushed close together across the road, wrapped in a scratchy orange blanket which Sherlock knew would irritate Mycroft terribly. 

Sherlock warmed his hands on his coffee cup. “They’ll be fine” he answered, obliquely. 

“And us?” John asked. 

“Hmmn?” Sherlock looked up at him. 

“Will we have charges to answer, Sherlock? We killed two men tonight.” John bit his lip. 

“Not us, John” Sherlock replied, looking away. “It seems Joe and Marcus shot each other in the confusion.” 

“I see” John sat down on the wall next to Sherlock, “terrible business, that.” 

Sherlock felt the new warmth of John next to him and pressed closer, not caring if John thought it strange and then found himself smiling softly when John pressed closer still. And if anyone asked John and Sherlock, they would say it was the cold, or the shock, which made them huddle so close together. But they stayed there for some time, on that wall, on that night, occasionally stealing sideways glances to catch each other's faces lit up by blue.


	7. Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life begins to settle back down to normality for Mycroft - although he may need to adjust his definition of normality from now on. This is the new normal.

At 5am, the only sound in the house was of the bathwater gently lapping as Mycroft leant over the edge of the porcelain bath, smoothing soap and bubbles as lightly as he could across Richard’s skin. Purple and black bruises were beginning to bloom across Richard’s body now, but he lay limp in the water, trusting Mycroft implicitly. 

He knew, somehow, that Mycroft needed to do this; he needed to see Richard’s body, feel it under his fingers again. He needed to wash away the night, cleanse Richard of every trace of what had happened. 

Over the coming weeks, Mycroft would watch Richard carefully, cataloguing the bruises and abrasions as they faded, running his fingers along the silver scars which remained, telling himself daily, hourly, that he would never allow another living soul to hurt this man again. 

But now, in the bath, Richard flinched slightly as Mycroft’s hand brushed against his ribs. Mycroft pulled his hand away gently and smoothed it through Richard’s damp hair instead. 

He leant his weight back onto his heels as he knelt at the side of the bath and breathed in the humidity, allowing the steam in the air to fill his nostrils and sting the inside of his nose slightly. He enjoyed the uncomfortable sensation, let it distract him from that other, deeper pain he was trying to ignore. He allowed his fingers to tangle briefly in Richard’s hair. “Let me shampoo you” he said softly and waited, as if it were a question. 

“You don’t have to do that” Richard answered, wanting to reach out and touch Mycroft’s face, but not trusting his injured ribs to allow him. 

“Please let me” Mycroft whispered. And Richard let him. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In those first few hours of having Richard back, Mycroft thought he might never sleep again. He thought his defences would never drop low enough again to allow sleep to come. Every noise in the house caused the panic to rise once more in his throat, sent him skittering to find Richard, to know he was safe. 

“Come to bed” Richard pleaded, sleepily from the sofa. 

“It’s nine o clock in the morning” Mycroft smiled. 

“We haven’t slept for over twenty four hours, darling” Richard yawned. “It doesn’t matter what time it is. Come to bed.” 

Mycroft met his eyes over the back of the sofa, resisting. 

“I shan’t be able to sleep unless you are there” Richard whispered, delivering the killer blow. He smirked and Mycroft had to laugh. 

“You win” Mycroft held up his hands and followed Richard to the bedroom with mock reluctance, but all the while, secretly glad, secretly rejoicing. It was a miracle Mycroft suspected he would never fathom, that Richard wanted his company, needed his presence to feel safe. 

But it was Mycroft who curled up against Richard on the bed, pressing his ear against Richard’s chest to hear his familiar heartbeat, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of him, having to bite the inside of his own cheek to force back hot tears of relief. 

“I thought I would lose you” he confessed, when he trusted his voice not to betray him. 

“There was a moment there when I thought I might lose you” Richard reminded him. 

Mycroft was back there in an instant, remembering the cold of the gun pushing into his head and the wildness of Joe’s eyes and then Sherlock, appearing from nowhere, being Sherlock. He wondered if he should query why his younger brother still apparently owned a government-issue hand gun. He resolved that he would rather not know. 

After a few minutes, he heard Richard’s breathing slow, felt his arms around him relax, knew that he was asleep. And just the knowledge of it soothed Mycroft; the normality of lying in Richard’s arms as he slept was all he needed to slow his own breathing, loosen his own limbs. Then the rest Mycroft thought he would never know again settled all around him, and he nestled a touch closer to Richard, and let go of his fear for a while and slept. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What time are your brother and parents getting here?” Richard asked. He was straightening Mycroft’s tie whilst Mycroft stood smiling, hands in pockets, letting him. 

“We have another half hour” Mycroft reassured him. He had invited his family around for drinks, to celebrate Richard’s safe return. 

The two men stood facing each other in Mycroft’s bedroom, bathed in the low evening sun. They were impeccably dressed now, almost as if the past couple of days had not happened. Almost. Except Richard was badly bruised, of course, even his expensive tailoring couldn’t hide that. But his hair was smoothed back and he looked as unruffled as he ever did, his familiar poise had returned. Mycroft pulled a hand out of his pocket to touch Richard’s face tenderly, mindful of the bruise on his cheek bone and the one across his jaw. He sighed. 

Richard caught his eye. “We have time, then” he smiled. 

“I hardly think you’re in any fit state!” Mycroft replied, as if scandalised, which made Richard smile even wider. 

“I’m not made of glass, Mycroft” he laughed, “let me show you.” He moved closer, drawing his lips along Mycroft’s neck with soft, subtle kisses. 

Mycroft closed his eyes and tried to compose his thoughts, which had just taken a rather unexpected turn. “Richard, in view of your injuries, I think we should wait several days before ...” 

Richard gave a sharp intake of breath. “Days?” he murmured, “Mycroft, I am a very patient man, but there are limits.” He shifted against him, letting hardness brush across Mycroft’s hip and causing Mycroft to swallow instinctively. 

“I’m alive” Richard whispered “and you’re alive, when neither of us might have been today. So for pity’s sake, don’t wrap me in cotton wool, Mycroft; don’t watch me as if I might break. Make me laugh instead – make me roar with laughter, even if it hurts my ribs. Let me kiss you again until you can’t breathe. Let me take you in my mouth, Mycroft; let me be glad to be alive.” 

And Mycroft had to admit to himself that that sounded like a rather splendid idea. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock and John stood on the balcony at Mycroft’s house. Mycroft’s housekeeper had let them in, saying Mycroft would be “Down shortly” and making Sherlock roll his eyes. 

Now Sherlock was smoking and John was judging him for it. 

There was something, though, a tension which had etched itself across Sherlock’s face over the past twenty four hours, which prevented John from laying on the disappointment too heavily. There was a tightness around Sherlock’s jaw which John reluctantly concluded entitled his flatmate to a cigarette. 

Through the half-open curtains, they could hear new voices in Mycroft’s house – Mycroft himself had appeared, with Richard. They were greeting Sherlock’s parents in the sitting room. 

Sherlock looked back at his parents through the window. As he did, his father reached out and brushed a stray thread from Mycroft’s elbow. Mycroft was looking at Richard, he possibly didn’t even notice his father’s quick touch, but Sherlock did. He saw the small, unconscious gesture and understood what it meant. He knew that it was filled with concern, filled with gratitude that today he wasn’t comforting his eldest son through the most unimaginable loss. 

Sherlock turned his attention to Richard and Mycroft. It was the first time he had seen them since the frenzy of the night before. Illuminated by the blue lights of a patrol car, they had clung to each other, desperate for consolation they could not even disguise and Sherlock found he had to turn away from the rawness of it. Some calm had apparently been restored now, but as Sherlock studied them, he could not help making deductions he didn’t want to. “Ugh” Sherlock scowled into his wine. 

John knew the sound Sherlock made, knew what it meant and smirked. “How can you tell?” he asked. He looked through the window at Mycroft and Richard. “How can you tell when they’ve had sex? They look perfectly composed to me.” And so they did – dressed smartly, in three-piece suits as they always were. Mycroft stood tall by the fireplace. He seemed to be smiling politely at something his mother was saying; Richard stood by his side, mirroring his fond expression. 

Sherlock sighed. “Details, John. Richard’s trousers are uncharacteristically creased at the knees. Furthermore, he is never usually without a pocket handkerchief, but his is missing this evening, which suggests that he has been ... wiping something.” Sherlock shuddered and John allowed himself another grin. “In addition, Mycroft’s trousers are undone - yet again.” Sherlock tipped his nose up in disgust: “It’s all rather tawdry.” 

“Well at least one of us is getting laid” John muttered into his wine glass and Sherlock tried valiantly to retain his composure. John let his smile soften. “It’s sort of nice though, isn’t it? He’s happy, Sherlock. When do you ever remember seeing Mycroft ... happy?” 

Sherlock paused to assess his brother through the window. He added up all the small details he had noticed over the past few months: the smile which played more frequently now around Mycroft’s mouth, the tender expression which flickered across his face at the mention of Richard, the modest ease which had slipped into his posture, the slight spring which had found its way into his step. 

Sherlock lowered his gaze back to his wine glass. “Indeed. It is strange though, knowing that my damaged and deranged brother has found himself in a relationship with another human being.” 

John raised his eyebrows and resisted the urge to remark that when it came to ‘damaged and deranged’, people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. “He’s in a happy, healthy relationship, Sherlock” he replied. 

“Yes” answered Sherlock “and yet we are not.” 

“We’re not in a happy and healthy relationship?” John quipped and Sherlock allowed himself to laugh. “Would you want to be?” John asked. Sherlock looked at him - too quickly for his own liking, too hopeful for decency. 

But as ever, John didn’t notice. “In a relationship with someone” John explained and Sherlock looked away then, understanding. For a moment he had thought ... well, it didn’t matter what he had thought. 

“As I believe I have said, John – I am married to my work.” Sherlock looked out over London, filling his head with the familiar buildings, the small streets, the small lives which were lived out on them. Filling his head with the busyness of it, rather than the restrained quiet of Mycroft’s balcony. 

“Which is great, Sherlock and you’re great at all that. But is it enough? I mean, intimacy, love – it’s something else. It can bring a certain ... contentment” John shrugged, “you never know. You might suit it. It might suit you.” 

Sherlock cleared his throat. The sentiment of today was making him altogether too uncomfortable for words. It was having his family here, with John, and the relief, the sheer blind relief he had read in Mycroft’s face the night before, when he knew Richard was safe. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock found that the expression on his brother’s face wouldn’t leave him. 

“Is this what it does for you, John – love?” Sherlock gestured to Mycroft “leaves you wandering around London with your trousers unfastened?” 

“If you’re very lucky, yeah” John grinned and Sherlock chuckled at that. 

Mycroft looked up just then, catching Sherlock’s eye through the window. Sherlock flicked his eyes down to his zip and back up to Mycroft’s face swiftly, hoping his brother would catch his meaning. Mycroft did, of course, turning to the fireplace to make himself decent and then facing Sherlock again quickly. He raised his wineglass and Sherlock smiled, returning the gesture with his own glass. 

Sherlock’s mother turned around. “Sherlock! John! What on earth are you doing on the balcony?” 

“John was smoking” Sherlock called though the open window and John pulled a weary expression, but said nothing to contradict him. 

The conversation in the living room continued without them and Sherlock turned away from it, back to John, back to their cocooning hush on the balcony. 

“What is it?” John asked, quietly. He looked out into the street below; giving Sherlock space to think, time to frame his words. 

“Today could have been very different” Sherlock said, after a pause. “If we hadn’t ... well, if my brother had lost Richard yesterday. I can’t get the look on Mycroft’s face out of my head, John. I can’t delete it.” 

John shuffled his feet. He still didn’t look at Sherlock. “Why not?” he enquired. 

“Because I recognised what I saw there and it caught me by surprise” Sherlock answered, honestly. “I saw what I would feel if I thought I had lost you.” 

“No, Sherlock” John sighed, gently “it’s hardly the same.” He left Sherlock on the balcony and rejoined the others inside. Sherlock could hear their murmured conversation and the clink of their glasses as he lit another cigarette. 

Within seconds, he heard the curtains rustle behind him and glanced around to see Mycroft stepping on to the balcony. Sherlock wordlessly lit a cigarette for his brother, which Mycroft accepted in silence. He leant against the railings next to Sherlock. 

A minute passed before Mycroft remarked “these are low-tar.” He lifted the cigarette up in the fading light. 

“Yes” Sherlock confirmed, noncommittally. 

“You never buy low-tar” Mycroft stated, taking another measured, grateful drag on the cigarette. 

“I did today” Sherlock answered, sending white smoke out into the still London air, “I thought you might need one.” 

They stared out across the roofs of the city below them, the old grey slate amid the shining new glass; watching it all turn golden in the setting sun. Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes - they knew so much, these two, knew so much and said so little. Words were not enough anyway, this evening, not enough to unravel the intense affection and rivalry which forever entangled them. 

“Last night, I - I owe you more than I can express, Sherlock” Mycroft said, steadily at last. 

“You would have done the same for me” Sherlock replied “if I ... if John ...” he stopped himself, knowing there was no safe or sane way to finish his sentence. He had revealed too much in front of Mycroft; he had shown his hand. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Indeed” he answered, with none of the superiority that Sherlock had anticipated. 

Mycroft drew on his cigarette slowly before he spoke. “Know that I would, brother dear.”


End file.
